


The Last Hawke

by Ceranna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Carver's redemption, Dad!Cullen, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Female Mage Trevelyan/Cullen Rutherford, Moving On, Post Trespasser, Reminiscing, Sadness with a happy ending, Templar Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6260023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceranna/pseuds/Ceranna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three years since Carver Hawke received word of his brothers death.  Now he journeys to find out the truth and confront the leader of the most powerful organization in Thedas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Hawke

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank [insideofadog](http://archiveofourown.org/users/insideofadog/pseuds/insideofadog), [theRadioStarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theRadioStarr/pseuds/theRadioStarr), and [lizmapes](http://lizmapes.tumblr.com/) for being such A+ people for reading through the rough draft of this and providing valuable feedback.
> 
>  
> 
> _You breathe, you learn, you lose._  
>  _You take, you break, you choose._  
>  _And as, you learn, and cry._  
>  _You do, your best, and try._
> 
>  
> 
> _And as, the days, go by._  
>  _It makes you, wonder why._  
>  _You try so hard, so hard._  
>  _To mend what's bound to fall apart_
> 
>  
> 
> _Ooh maybe it's time_  
>  _To let it go_  
>  - _ **Broken Chair by Chris and Thomas**_

It was an impressive statue, Carver granted it that much.  The white marble nearly blazed in the sunlight, dominating Kirkwall’s Hightown market by sheer size alone. The figure depicted was staring determinedly off in the distance, but there was the faintest of curves to the lips, a wicked smile tucked into the corners of the mouth. The sculptor must have been a master, for the simple stone practically breathed with life. And at the base, written in elegant script and embossed with gold leaf, was a single simple sentence.

  _“The Champion; fallen but never forgotten.”_

Varric, generally so verbose, was apparently rather laconic when it came to epitaphs, Carver noted sardonically. He returned his gaze to the marble visage of the oldest Hawke sibling.  

It’s an old ache, anger and bitterness and hurt muted by time and, despite his attempts otherwise, wisdom. It wasn’t so long ago that Carver would purposely prod and poke that ember, stoke it to a righteous anger that he could use as necessary.  Anything was better than the alternative; broken and anguished, unable to do anything but stand.

No, anger was better. And he had so many things to be angry about.

Watching man after man fall at Ostagar. The final argument with Hawke in Lothering, back when his brother was just Garrett. The time wasted convincing them all to flee. Resentment at Bethany, who trailed after Hawke and died in the dirt on their way to Gwaren.  Kirkwall, Maker-forsaken _Anders_ , then later the Templars and the clean up of Kirkwall. The last fight with Hawke. And finally, months after Hawke had left, a letter. _He died a hero, Junior, believe that._

“Well, you have _got_ to be shitting me...Junior? Junior!” called a familiar, if unheard-from-in-too-long, voice from behind.  Carver turned slightly to see Varric, richly dressed in velvet and crowned with a gold circlet of all things , heading his way.  Trailing behind him was Seneschal Bran, wearing the same harried, snobbish expression.  At least some things never change.

“Varric.” Carver greeted roughly.  “Or should I be calling you Lord Tethras?”  

“Please don’t.  I mean it,” Varric growled, coming to a stop next to Carver. “I have enough of the bowing and scraping from those simpering idiots back at the Keep, thank you very much.”

 “My Lord…” sighed Bran. “Do try not to call them that in public.”

 Varric waved him off with an eye roll and joined Carver in his contemplation of Hawke, immortalized in stone.  

 “So...what do you think?” Varric finally ejects after a few more seconds of silence.

 “Of the statue? Let’s see...Expensive. Excessively large. Hawke looks _particularly_ heroic. And ridiculous.” Carver ticked the items off with his fingers, then found himself grinning. “Hawke would love it.”  

 “Yeah?” Varric responded, pondering the statue before affirming with a voice that carried years of memories. “Yeah, he would.”

There was a moment of quiet, as both of the men turned their gazes up and their thoughts inwards.  For reasons unknown to himself, Carver found himself reflecting on their first few years in Kirkwall, packed like sardines in Gamlen's hovel.  With so little space, Carver and Garrett had had to share a pallet. No matter if they were fighting, sick, drunk, or a combination of both, every night at Gamlen’s had included Hawke’s presence on the too-small cot. For months at the Templar barracks, Carver could only fall asleep when he conjured up the memory of those nights.  Back then, it had infuriated him.  Now though...Carver found himself wishing he could recall something as simple as the sound of his brother slumbering breath in the dark.  _Pathetic_.

Thankfully, Varric broke the silence.

“Not that I’m not happy to see your delightful face, Junior, but what are you doing here?”

“Prepare to be impressed.  I’ve been summoned before the new Divine to receive some kind of an award for my years of loyal service to the Templars,” Carver replied wryly.

“An award huh? Sounds...fancy.  But what are you doing _here,_ ” repeated the dwarf.

“I-” Carver paused, and took a calming breath before continuing. “I want to know what happened.  To Hawke.”

“Why now?  It’s been almost three years, Carver.”

Three years. Carver glared up at the impressive statue’s face.  Three years since Varric's letter.  Three years since he threw it and nearly every piece of furniture in his quarters in a fury that was better than the unrelenting tears that threatened to choke him. Three years.

After the anger cooled, he had stumbled down to the Hanged Man, and drank glass after glass in determined silence and then followed that up with lyrium.  Mechanically, Carver had downed each remaining lyrium philter, so carefully rationed before, until he finally felt empty again.  

Later, after Aveline had had to have three of her guards carry him home, and during the subsequent hangover the next morning, Aveline had blustered in with her typical combination of concern and irritation.  “ _I loved him too, Carver.”_ she had said when he snarled and snapped, then left after handing him a packet of lyrium dust.  Alone, Carver stared at the nondescript pouch and then, without any thought at all, dumped it out on the floor.  He never touched the stuff again, despite the withdrawals that left him weak, bedridden, and shaking for almost a year.  

Carver buried himself in the relief efforts, offered his templar trained knowledge of demons to help the city guard with the many open rifts that plagued Kirkwall.  Aveline had accepted with a surprising amount of alacrity, putting him in charge of a squadron of guards. He had found a dark humor in it all, Carver the follower, now the leader.  Hawke had made it all look so easy, so natural.  Late at night, after losing a man to a particularly vicious Terror demon, he had a sudden yearning to just _talk_ to his brother. About anything really.  Even Lothering.

After that, the exact moment lost to time, he stopped being so furious at the memory of his brother. All that was left was largely regret . All the stupid fights and stubbornness that had kept them from ever truly talking.  They had been close once, Carver remembered, as children. He wondered what would have changed if they had remained that way. Would he have gone along with Hawke to the Deep Roads instead of joining the Templars?  Would Hawke still have turned to Anders?

Meaningless to ponder it, he had told himself, but he found himself unable to stop.  

Finally, Carver left Kirkwall, traveled the Free Marches, training the local militia, fighting demons and running from the memories.  He had never been a particularly good Templar, too restless and not enough blind faith, but he was glad that the training allowed him to be of use. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a place that Carver refused to acknowledge, he knew that Hawke would be proud.  Nearly ten years of resentment and still Hawke remained, the voice in his head calling him to do better, to _be_ better.  

And here he was, actually taking action to achieve it.  His younger self would have been appalled.  But the question remained: why now and not a year ago?  What did it matter in the grand scheme of things?  Hawke was gone, just like Bethany, just like Mother, just like Father. Carver was all that remained.

Carver stared up at the face of his brother set in stone, heard Hawke’s voice laughing, crying, shouting in anger.  The last few words they exchanged, just days before the explosion.   _You told me once, Carver, that everything comes to an end_.  Carver hadn’t wanted to be right.  

Carver inhaled sharply and let it all go with his exhale.  “It was time,” he finally replied simply, and Varric huffed.

“Time, he says. Time.” Varric mocked with a flourish of his hand.  “Well, Junior, if you want to hear it, then follow me.  This isn’t exactly the proper setting for this kind of thing.”  

Varric waved Carver to follow him and headed back to the Viscount's Keep.   _Varric’s Keep now_ , Carver thought with no small amount of amusement, as he struggled to match his long-legged pace to the much shorter dwarf. It should have been strange, navigating the threads of their relationship without Hawke connecting them, but it wasn’t.  They seemed to fall into the roles they played for years, if both a bit worse for wear.  He was still Junior and Varric was still the fast-talking dwarf who would get him drunk and laugh as Carver tried out flirting on Isabela.

He followed Varric into the Keep, watching with no small amount of amusement as Varric waved off petitioner after petitioner with no small amount of frustration.  Bran trailed behind, bemoaning this or that meeting that Varric was apparently missing.  When they finally reached the Viscount’s office, Varric shut the door in Bran’s face with firm instructions to clear Varric’s schedule for the afternoon.  The dwarf slumped into the plush chair behind his desk, tore the crown from his head and tossed it into the corner with a soft sigh. Carver sat across from him and waited expectantly for Varric to launch into Hawke’s final moments with his typical storyteller flair.  But the dwarf surprised him with a blunt response.

“There’s not much more to it then what I already stated in the letter, Carver. It was Adamant! We had demons up to our eyeballs.  Hawke was with the Inquisitor and I was on the walls with the rest of the archers when the dragon showed up and everything went to the Void.” He paused, opened a drawer, pulled out a flask triumphantly, and took a sip before continuing.

“That blasted dragon cornered the Inquisitor, something happened with the wall that they were all standing on, and next thing I know we’re watching the whole crew:  the Inquisitor, “Hope of All Thedas”; the Champion of Kirkwall; and the Right Hand of the Divine among them, fall off the edge into the Abyssal Rift. Somehow the Inquisitor opened up a rift on the way down, they went into the Fade, and Hawke didn’t come out,” Varric finished roughly, taking another swig before tossing the flask to Carver.  

“Varric.  That’s nearly word for word what you said in your letter,” Carver bit out.

“I’m getting to it, Carver.  Just letting the expensive alcohol ease the way first,” he shot back.  Carver took a sip of the flask.  Mackay’s Single Malt, definitely expensive.  Varric arched his brow as Carver took another larger swallow, polishing off the smooth liquid that was probably worth more than all the possessions he owned combined, _including_ his rune-marked Templar armor.  

“Like I said, I wasn’t there. They told me that it was a strange and harrowing experience...Your greatest fears brought to life, and at the end they faced a powerful Nightmare demon.  Nearly lost everyone, if not for Hawke.  I’m not clear about this: either the Inquisitor ordered him to stay or Hawke volunteered. Either way, he stayed to distract the demon, letting the rest escape the Fade with their lives.  He was a hero, even...even in the end.” Varric finished quickly, one hand curled tightly around the arm of his chair.

Carver shifted, suddenly livid. At the Inquisitor for the orders, at Varric for not _being_ there to stop her, and at Hawke most of all.  Hawke who never did what anyone told him to do, who always managed to weasel his way out of certain death with a grin and a smart remark.  Hawke who had grinned at mad Meredith, his hands still warm with the lifeblood of his lover and his eyes empty.

“Are you telling me that Hawke died a distraction?  That for once in his life, he followed a command?” he growled.  

“What was he supposed to do? Say ‘Thank you but no. First one to the open rift wins?’”

“No, but-” Carver was cut off by Varric before he could finish his sentence.

“Take on the demon until one by one they all, including Hawke, died? There were no good choices there, Carver.  Sometimes...sometimes you go with the best _worst_ choice and live with it. The Inquisitor knew that. Hawke knew that. And he accepted it rather than fight it.”

“Then he should have fought!” Carver spat, glaring across the desk at the only available substitute for the subject in question.

“Junior, all Hawke did was fight,” Varric replied in a tired voice that for once betrayed his age. Carver turned to let his gaze rest on Varric's face rather than the silver flask he held tightly in his hands.  

“No, Varric. He should have fought to _live_.”

There was a quiet awful silence and then the sound of one quick pained breath in. Carver could see no shock in the dwarfs eyes. Varric had known.  Hawke, charming, loving, frustrating, _broken_ Hawke. Who never just flirted with death but courted it, with a determination that grew with every loss.  When Hawke carried Anders to the ground in the Gallows courtyard, a sliver of envy flashed across his brother’s face, quickly washed away by the terrible mix of anger, pain, and grief.  Carver, standing in formation with the rest of the Templars, had understood then.  Now, he wondered how long Varric had known.

“I- _shit.”_ Varric scrubbed his face with a hand and a haggard exhale before pulling out a half-empty bottle of MacKay’s whiskey.  “If we are going to keep discussing this, I’m going to need to be far more drunk,” he said with a bitter salute of the bottle before taking a rather uncivilized gulp of the golden liquid.

Carver slumped down in his chair with soft sigh.  “It’s alright Varric. I’ve got what I came for,” he lied.  It _wasn’t_ enough, but the thought of hurting the dwarf across from him further was somehow worse. “So...how have things...been?” he asked finally, shifting awkwardly in his chair.  Varric blinked at him before laughing roughly and handing him the whiskey.  

“It’s been worse.  All this…” Varric waved around the office empathetically.  “Lots of bitching and moaning from people that think they’re your betters based on birth but on the other hand I get to tell the Merchants Guild to stick it where the sun don’t shine.  If that isn’t a perk, I don’t know what is.”

They talked late into the night, swapping the bottle of whiskey as they swapped stories of the years that had passed. Varric caught him up on their mutual friends.  Aveline was expecting her second child, with little intention of slowing down her duties.  Sebastian was apparently the Prince of Starkhaven, and Isabela was calling herself an admiral.  Fenris had a son of all things, though he was currently striking terror in the hearts of the Magisterium rather than being a father.  Priorities, Carver supposed.

“And Merrill?” Carver asked, far too tipsy for discretion at this point, and Varric smirked that unique way that had always made Carver want to simultaneously laugh and punch him.

“Daisy? Oh she’s still around.  She’s tucked the elves of the Alienage safely under her wing.  They’ve taken to calling her ‘ _Hahren_ ’ of all things,” he paused then to look at Carver with eyes glassed over by the drink.  “You should drop by before you go.  Say hello.”

_Merrill._ The tiny elven woman, who had always made him feel so gawky, who always had a kind word for him, and who never failed to brighten the room just by being in it.  

“Maybe,” he said.  But he knew he wouldn’t.

After the conversation died down, Carver pulled his quite substantial frame up out of the chair and stumbled to the door and paused there before looking back at Varric.

“Did you...Did you ever write about it?  Hawke, I mean. And the Fade.”

Varric uncrossed his arms, his legs still resting upon the desk, and smiled.  A simple curve with a lifetime of sadness tucked into the corner.

“Oh I wrote it alright. I gave the final manuscript to a friend. She...well, out of anybody, she deserved to read it.  But I couldn’t publish it. It was...easier that way.  A hiatus on Hawke’s story instead of the final chapter.”

And before Carver could respond Varric was tossing something small and metallic at him with a “Here, catch!”  Carver’s fingers, clumsy from the whiskey, fumbled before firmly grasping the object.  

“What?” Carver asked blearily, examining the blurred object; a small brooch shaped into a flaming eye.  

“Wear that when you get to Skyhold.  It’ll mark you as a friend of the Inquisition. They’re a bit paranoid now a days,” Varric answered cryptically. Carver studied the brooch before tucking it carefully away for safekeeping.

“Thank you,” he said and somehow they both knew that the simple gratitude encompassed so much more than for the latest gift.  Years of stories told, drinks drunk, and Wicked Grace played.  Years of advice that went stubbornly unheeded.  Years that Varric provided Hawke a family when Carver couldn’t.  Varric simply waved him off, an elegant salute that mocked the nobility of his surroundings.  

“Don’t be a stranger, Carver,” he said.

“I won’t, I promise,” Carver replied, and this time he didn’t think he lied.  

 

* * *

 

 

 At first light, nursing a hangover that nearly had him promising the Maker to never touch alcohol again, Carver trudged down to the docks and boarded the first ship to Ferelden. A two-day journey across the Waking Sea had him taking his first steps on the country of his birth in nearly fourteen years.  A lifetime.  Carver closed the throat of his parka and shouldered his travel bag before striding away from the docks of Jader towards the looming Frostback Mountains.  It was far colder than he had remembered.

A week's hard march through steadily increasing elevation brought Carver out of breath and weary to the front gates of the massive stone castle perched delicately on the mountainside, its towers thrusting upwards to the sky.   _Skyhold_.  He adjusted his bag, remembered Varric’s brooch and paused to dig it out.  After the fifth time he was stopped and nearly interrogated by the Inquisition's soldiers, Carver was immensely grateful for the simple crest pinned to his shoulder.  As soon as they saw it they waved him on, returning to their work with disinterest.  

At the main courtyard, black and crimson standards of the Inquisition dominate and the gold of the Divine to which they owed their allegiance curiously a mere suggestion, Carver finally found a messenger slow enough to catch in order to get directions to their commander’s office.  Carver followed the stairs up to the outer tower and paused before the surprisingly normal wood door.  He took a deep breath, wondered suddenly if Garrett had stood at this very spot with that smirk of his, before opening the door.  

The man behind the stately desk was wholly focused on the mound of paperwork in front of him, one hand shoved into barely tamed curls and the other determinedly scratching at the paper with a pen.  Carver started, the pose so familiar from years of reporting to the Knight-Captain’s (and then Knight-Commander’s) office that Carver no longer saw the stone walls of Skyhold and the furs of the man in front of him but the red stone floors of the Gallows and the flaming sword engraved onto well worn platemail.  

“Knight-Commander!” Carver blurted automatically.  The man sighed but didn’t look up immediately while replying in a dry voice.

“That’s not my- Carver? Maker, is it really you?”

“Yes,” Carver answered absentmindedly, his gaze shifted to observe the rest of the office, the bookshelves stuffed with various texts and paraphernalia of command, an armor stand, and two small children penned in the corner by-

“Is that...a _templar_ shield and chest plate?”

The Commander rose from his desk, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he too turned to look at the children playing contentedly. “Ah...yes.” he admitted sheepishly “Only thing that keeps them from getting into everything.”

“Huh,” replied Carver intelligently.  There was a moment of silence as both men turned to regard the children.  

Carver had had very little exposure to children, and so in his limited experience could only tell that they were barely a couple years old and blonde like the Commander. The twins, for they were identical in nearly every way except for eye color, were focused with single-minded determination on the small wood puzzle box in front of them.  

“Our Arcanist Dagna made it.  The puzzle box that is,” the Commander commented.  There was a smile in his voice, though the physical presence of it remained absent.  “Clever little thing can be adjusted so the solution changes each time.  They’re figuring it out faster and faster though.” He grinned suddenly, not the half smile that Carver had seen so rarely in Kirkwall, but a full one.  The Commander return to his seat and gestured to Carver to take the chair set across from him.  He returned to his paperwork inattentively.  

“It is good to see you, Carver.  It has been too long since Kirkwall,”  he said after Carver settled. Carver was surprised. They hadn’t been particularly close, not that the Knight-Captain had been particularly close to _anyone_ back then, but until he completed his training he had barely even seen the man across the Gallows courtyard and afterwards only the briefest exchange of words between a superior and his soldier.  Apparently the Commander had been paying closer attention then he had assumed.  _Hawke_.  

For someone Carver went to great lengths to avoid, his brother had always been far more aware of his life with the Templars, suspiciously so. There was no proof of it, but Carver was suddenly certain that the man sitting in front of him was the reason.  Funny, what time reveals.  

It was a bitter revelation and on its heels came a deep yearning.  He only wished he had had a chance to tell his brother that he had had a second spy in Carver, and he had kept Varric well informed of the Templars’ patrols in Kirkwall for years.  _What a pair the two you make_ , Varric had said with a shake of his head when Carver first came forward with his information. His comment made little sense all those years ago, but now it made far too much.  Carver swallowed carefully before responding.  

“And you as well,” Carver answered roughly, watching the man’s pen make its way across the paper, the happy nonsense burbles of the children behind him.  “Knigh...Commander, I have come to ask about my brother.”

The pen paused.

“I thought as much,” the Commander responded; setting down the pen in question and giving Carver his full attention. He paused and scanned Carver’s face carefully before replying.

“The Inquisitor holds court every afternoon in the throneroom.  It’s too late today, but I will speak to Josephine and make sure to have you on her agenda,” he said with a firm nod.  “Now tell me, how have you faired these past years since we last saw each other?”

As they engaged in the tenuous and careful conversation of two men with only duty and grief in their pasts in common, Carver found himself making quick searching glances of his old Knight-Commander’s face. He looked...different. Carver couldn’t quite put his finger on it. His hair was fussier and his uniform had changed, but other then looking slightly older there wasn’t an obvious physical difference.  The man still appeared like he was functioning on barely enough sleep, still had the messiest desk in all of Thedas, and yet...He wasn’t the man that Carver had known back in Kirkwall.  

_He’s happy_ .  _Truly and deeply happy_ , Carver realized.  Something shifted in his chest; the man in front of him had been at the center of some of the worst atrocities, and despite the blood and the death, here he was: the leader of the Inquisition's forces, a force for good and stability, with a family.  At peace.  He opened his mouth to blurt out  _how_ but the sound of the door opening interrupted his blunt words. When the Commander stopped midsentence with a simple “Ah”, Carver turned around to see the newcomer.

It was a woman.   _A beautiful woman_ , Carver amended quickly.  Long auburn hair nearly trailed to the floor as she bent over to coo at the children, her thick robes glowing richly in the dusk light and one sleeve fluttered, empty.  Carver stilled; he knew of only one woman who fit that description. The revered Inquisitor, hailed as Andraste’s Herald and rumored the true force behind the Divine, was here and making small talk with the Commander’s children.  

“Did the stuffy templar lock you away again?” he overheard her chirp to the small ones, her arm stroking the soft blonde hair of their heads.  Behind him, Carver heard the Commander sigh wearily, but when he looked back the man was smiling softly at the Inquisitor and his children. Carver glanced between the two leaders, once and then once again. _Their children,_ Carver thought to himself.  So the former Knight-Commander had not only settled down, but had settled down with the Inquisitor, a _mage,_ to boot.  

Abruptly remembering manners beaten into his thick head by a determined mother, Carver stood quickly.  The Commander followed suite with a soft chuckle and came round to Carver’s side to lean on the desk as the Inquisitor rose to her full height, one child hitched on her hip and a questioning arch to her perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Inquisitor, allow me to introduce an old comrade-in-arms,” the man said formally.  “This is Ser Carver. Ser Carver Hawke.”

The Inquisitor inclined her head regally, fiery locks tumbling over one shoulder and into the waiting hands of the toddler at her hip.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted without even the slightest hint of a flinch as the child tugged on her hair with abandon.  Carver found himself wincing in sympathy.  “Please, do not stop your reminiscing on my account. I am only here for a visit,” the Inquisitor said, angling towards the remaining child on the floor.  

Carver bowed his head in response.  Truth be told he was rather...disappointed.  After all of Varric’s letters he had fully expected an intimidating figure of a woman, but in person she seemed rather ordinary.  Beautiful to be sure and oddly formal, but ordinary all the same.  Carver turned back to the Commander, fully intending to make his farewells when the man nudged him with an elbow.  Carver blinked owlishly at the Commander.

“Ask her now,” the Commander instructed sotto voce.  

“What?”

“Ask her now, while she’s with the children,” the man whispered again urgently and then followed up with a stronger nudge that managed to knock Carver forward a step.  

“Ah, Inquisitor?” Carver said, sparing a glare for the studiously blank-faced Commander and rubbing what would sure to be a bruise on his ribs.  The Inquisitor turned to regard him with a detached curiosity. “If you have some time, I’d like to discuss my brother.  And how...how he died.” Carver finished roughly.   _Maker_ , _years later and I still can’t spit it out._

She straightened again, treating Carver to the full force of her attention for the first time, her face betraying none of the thoughts that swam in her storm colored eyes. Carver fought the urge to squirm as she considered him with narrowed eyes.  Throughout his life Carver had been subject to many such evaluations, family, superiors and friends alike, and had generally been found wanting.  He’d finally reached a point where he managed to convince himself that he didn’t care, but meeting the Inquisitor's eyes, he wanted to be found worthy.  For once.  

She nodded finally and Carver let out a breath he didn’t even knew he was holding. He suddenly understood what Varric was trying to communicate about the Inquisitor.  How she made everyone feel like they had to measure up.

“I will speak with you,” she said firmly.  “Meet me in the gardens after supper.  We shouldn’t be bothered there.”  The Inquisitor turned around to set the child at her hip back to the floor with the other twin.  

Dismissed, Carver bade the Commander farewell with a sharp nod and strode to the door.

“Oh, and Carver?”

Carver paused to look back at the man’s call.  The Inquisitor had moved to the Commander’s side, face as impassive as the moment she noticed his presence.  They weren’t touching, but there was an intimacy created in the comfortable space shaped between their two bodies.

“Drop by before you leave?”  the Commander asked and Carver nodded reflexively before exiting out to Skyhold proper.  He took one deep, clarifying breath, the cold of the air cutting straight through his lungs, before heading to the main hall.  

 

* * *

 

The grand hall of Skyhold Keep was buzzing with gathered Inquisition forces, traveling merchants, and visiting dignitaries. Carver lost himself in the crowd, idling listening in to the multitudes of conversation.  Simple but hearty food was laid out on trays for all but the nobility, who were served at tables set next to the throne. Due to Carver’s disinterest in being drawn into a conversation about the market rate for Orzammar goods across Thedas, he finished his meal quickly.  Carver spent the remaining time at the small tavern, aptly named the Herald's Rest.   _More likely ironically named_ , Carver thought. The Inquisitor didn’t seem the type to frequent taverns.  

It was what under normal circumstances would have been a perfectly agreeable way to pass the time. The ale was a rare combination of being both cheap _and_ good and the atmosphere pleasant, ignoring the overly enthusiastic strumming of the bard.  But Carver found himself unable to relax. His knuckles were white where they gripped the mug by the time he set his half-finished beer and paid the crabby dwarven bartender. When he finally left the now-rowdy tavern, the sun was setting and even the garrulous nobles had left the main hall as he passed it on the way to the gardens.  

The silence was calming, the only sound the small insects that lingered in the verdant shadows of the gardens.  Carver found the area nearly empty of people.  

A small chantry was tucked into the back, the candle light flicking charmingly off the climbing Goldenheart Ivy that nearly grew over the entrance.  And it was there that Carver found the Inquisitor, gazing up at the modest statue of Andraste.  

He came to a stop at her side, his very steps echoing rather loudly in the small space.  Not for the first time Carver wished for a pair of lighter feet. The Inquisitor spared him a brief glance before turning back to the Andrastian shrine.    

“Tell me Ser Carver, are you a man of faith?” she asked finally, her focus remaining on the statue and her face a portrait of polite disinterest.

Carver shifted uncomfortably. The Hawke siblings had had strange religious education.  Both Malcolm and Leandra had been very clear on their expectations that the Hawke family appear as normal as possible, in public at least. Carver and his siblings attended all the religious functions and learned the Chant as any good Andrastian would do.  After all, good Andrastians wouldn’t harbor apostates.  Good Andrastians _weren’t_ apostates.  

Bethany had shocked them all by developing a quiet by deeply held faith while Hawke loudly and vocally despised the Chantry.  And Carver...well he had to admit there were times that the hushed reverence of the local chantries of his childhood were the only place he found a small remnant of peace.  But after Lothering and Kirkwall, whatever tenuous faith Carver had held was well and truly gone.  

“Not particularly,” Carver replied finally.

She smiled slightly.  “Me neither. But I have grown to appreciate the atmosphere at least. The Commander says the quiet promotes calm contemplation.”

There was quiet as the Inquisitor turned to regard Andraste again for a moment.  Carver noted that her hand came to rest absentmindedly on the necklace around her neck.  It was a simple tarnished coin on a delicate gold chain, a surprisingly plain piece of jewelry for the richness of her clothing. But she held it like it was something precious. The Inquisitor turned back to face Carver.

“At Skyhold, your brother seemed rather less,” she stated abruptly.  

Carver blinked, instantaneously rising up with half-a-dozen replies to defend Hawke but the Inquisitor continued, blithely unaware of Carver’s furious gaze.  

“The stories they told of him...I suppose I was expecting more.  But stories rarely capture the whole of the truth.  I suspect you know this better than most,” she fixed him with a surprisingly perceptive look and Carver swallowed the rest of his anger.  

He remembered the last few years when the Champion had far overshadowed Hawke, the charming Ferelden refugee.  He had watched his brother from his station guarding the Gallows as Hawke strode past on any number of errands or missions.  The larger Hawke’s legend grew, the lower his shoulders slumped.

“He was more...contained than what I had come to expect from Mr. Tethras’ stories,” she smiled briefly at Carver’s involuntary snort.

“I see you must be very familiar with his tales, Ser Carver,” she noted before continuing. “It was curious though. Your brother seemed to snap out it once we reached Adamant.”

Carver felt faintly sick. While Carver had spent the years between their last fight making reparations to the people of Kirkwall, it seemed Hawke continued to chase death, only coming to life when death was certain. Nothing had apparently changed.

“You must be aware of the circumstances of how we ended up in the Fade,” the Inquisition stated blandly, glancing at Carver for confirmation. He nodded once, firmly, and she continued. “I will spare you the repetition then.”

She turned back to the shrine in front of them.  The Inquisitor went suddenly very still and though her face betrayed nothing, Carver sensed a storm that raged between the surface.  Her knuckles were white were they gripped the necklace.

“We faced our fears, our nightmares,” she began. “In the Fade, I mean. It isn’t something most people would like to revisit you understand,” the Inquisitor halted for a moment, let go of the necklace, and caught his eyes with her direct gaze.

“I wasn’t...at my best,” she explained and as much as the Inquisitor tried to suppress it, he could hear the strain in her voice. “I have reached far, hoped for much in this life and that kind of reach...it carries a weight. The Nightmare demon was quick to capitalize on that.”

The Inquisitor sighed.  It was the most emotive Carver had seen from the woman since they’d met in the gardens.

“Your brother was instrumental in leading the team while I was...occupied.”

Carver found himself observing the Inquisitor critically, certain that this vulnerability was just as uncomfortable for the Inquisitor as it was for him.  Whatever had taken place when the Inquisitor and his brother were in the Fade was clearly beyond his comprehension.  It must have been bad.

He and his brother shared many terrors, the death of their mother being just one.  He couldn’t imagine what they had experienced _physically_ being the realm of Nightmare.  And the Inquisitor...She who had swept up the remaining grisly bloody mess of the Mage-Templar war, and survived the destruction of Haven...What she had said earlier about the Nightmare demon honing in on her.  Carver thought back to his training. A mage of her power and experience would be the ultimate prey for a demon like that.

“There was a graveyard,” the Inquisitor said. “On the tombstones had each of our deepest fears.  And on Hawke’s...it was blank.  He laughed.  He was the only one to laugh.”

Carver stilled. Frozen like the Inquisitor beside him by the implication.  Hawke’s greatest fear was nothingness and yet by all intent and purpose it was what his brother most wanted. _What did that even mean?_

“After that...things changed for Hawke,” the Inquisitor explained. “He had been the Champion the moment we got to Adamant, but after seeing his greatest fear...I think he found some sort of resolution. He even made a joke about getting a pint at the Hanging Man once his business was all over.”  The Inquisitor looked at Hawke curiously, “Why would one _want_ to go to a place named have such a gruesome thing?”

“Nobody knows, even those that drink there,” Carver quipped roughly, trying desperately to hide his reaction.  Carver's hands clenched as his stomach roiled. _Stupid_. Of course it would take a fucking trip into the Fade for Hawke to finally figure out he didn’t want to die. _Hawke. That_ **_asshole_** _._ Rage and grief fought for dominance, a familiar feeling that he had thought he was beyond.

The Inquisitor continued, oblivious to his internal conflict. “We faced a fear demon and after we defeated it there was a moment...We all thought we would all be able to make it out alive,” she stated calmly but her eyes shuttered closed for the briefest of moments.

“And then the Nightmare came.”  Her words were like stone, heavy and final.

The Inquisitor's hand returned to the necklace as she took a moment to regard him carefully. Carver felt like a wounded animal, exposed and vulnerable. He didn’t want her to finish the recounting. He didn’t want her to stop.  

“Your brother was the first volunteer, though not the last. Even though he volunteered, I was the one to make the choice to have Hawke remain behind. That was my decision and mine alone.”  

The Inquisitor met his gaze unflinchingly, but Carver could see the strain in her graceful frame. He thought of what Varric had told him.  Of choices.  Bad ones. Good ones. And the ones that mattered. Carver bowed his head, clenched fists releasing as anger drained away. He couldn’t look at her in this moment, but there was no rage left in Carver for the woman beside him. He heard her shift as if to leave, but she paused.  Carver braced himself for whatever was about to come.

“He spoke of you...before we left him. They were brief unfinished words but I thought you should know,” she said stiffly.  Carver could almost accuse the Inquisitor of coldness were it not for the delicate hesitancy of her words.

After the Inquisitor left, gracefully exiting without a look behind her, Carver lost the battle with his barely maintained self-possession. He fell to his knees with a low sob, the stone floor cold and unforgiving underneath him.  Hot tears ran down Carver’s face until he was left hollow; empty as the stone gaze of Andraste before him.  

 

* * *

 

There had been little sleep for Carver the night before and at the first signs of light he dragged himself from the small cramped room.  At the communal bathing chambers, Carver scrubbed until his skin was bright pink in nearly ice cold water.  He found himself pausing by a scratched full length looking glass, meeting the gaze of his own reflection.  He took in the few grey hairs at his temples that had snuck in, the faint lines around his eyes, and the bristles on his chin that were well past stubble.  Not for the first time, Carver could see his brother in his own face.  It didn’t hurt as much as it once did.

It was still early in the morning when Carver finally made his way to the Commander's office one final time. Unsurprisingly, the Commander was already awake and well into the mound of seemly unending paperwork when Carver entered the Commander’s office. He greeted Carver brightly and offered breakfast repast from the laden tray on his desk.  

They both dug in, Carver accepting a mug of tea steeped until it was black while the Commander added cream to his with a liberal hand.  Between bites of the stuffed pastries and sips of tea, the two men remained in comfortable quiet broken by short bouts of small talk.  Finally, the Commander set aside the remains of his meal and gave Carver a curious look.

“So Carver, what are your plans?” asked the Commander.

“Well...to be honest, I’m not quite sure,” Carver replied, one hand grasping his mug of tea tightly before relaxing.  

“For now, Val Royeaux,” he continued. “I’ve been asked to appear before the Divine at the Grand Cathedral, apparently for some kind of award for my loyal service.”

Carver couldn’t stop the bitter twist to his words.  The new Divine had been quick to end the Circle of Magi, but left the clean up of the remaining Templars to the Inquisition, much to the dissatisfaction of many.  Carver couldn’t help but think that this award was nothing but empty ceremony, meant to appease the more rebellious voices. There were other, more worthy Templars, but none carried the weight of his name.  The Commander gave the expected albeit rather lackluster congratulations, though Carver had to wonder if it was his own cynicism coloring the Commander's response.

They said their goodbyes then, but Carver was surprised when the man followed him to the door.  They paused at the portal, and Carver could see that there was something on the Commander’s mind as the man shifted slightly.

“Your brother- Hawke was…” the Commander exhaled roughly and ran a hand through his short curls. “He was a good man,” he stated finally. “I tried to apologize for some things that I said...that I did, back in Kirkwall.  I was..well...I wasn’t particularly _kind_ to him. Not to anyone really back then, but...” The Commander paused again, hand coming to rest on the back of his neck.

Carver thought of Kirkwall, of the templar initiates’ dark whispers about their Knight-Captain’s past in Ferelden. And before Carver had even joined the templars; Hawke speaking with the Knight-Captain at the Gallows about mages of all things. _They are not like you and me._  And Hawke, splendidly drunk and laughing until tears rolled down his face at the Hanged Man, repeating those words and crowing over the irony.

“He just laughed and bought me a drink,” the Commander finished with a rueful smile. There was a brief silence and in the void of sound Carver could feel Hawke again, briefly piercing the calm that had dulled his emotions since the evening before. He _had_ been a good man, despite everything. Despite what the deaths and Kirkwall and being the Champion had done to him. Hawke was and had always been a good man.

“Oh! And before I forget,” the Commander burst out, jarring Carver from his internal conflict, the man pulled out an official-looking scroll from a side pocket. It was already sealed and stamped with the Inquisition’s insignia.

“Normally we would have send this out with the trade caravan but since you were heading to Val Royeaux anyways, I was wondering if you could do me a favor and deliver this on my behalf,” the Commander explained rather quickly, gesturing with the outstretched scroll.   

“Oh, and make sure to stick around to ensure that she actually reads it this time,” the man added inexplicably.   

Before Carver can say much of anything, the Commander handed the letter to him, clasped his hand in a final farewell, and shut the door behind him.  Carver was left blinking in the crisp mountain air, struggling against the sudden surge of resentment. _Does he think I’m just a messenger?_

With a sigh, Carver pushed it all away. The truth was, after playing his role in whatever game the Divine was playing, Carver had nothing. The Templars weren’t gone but the idea of re-joining the ranks left a sour taste in Carver’s mouth.  As did the thought of crawling back to Kirkwall. Being a glorified messenger was at least _something_ he could do.  After that...well, he would find out when he got there, Carver thought dryly.  He glanced down at the name scrawled in a plain though practiced had across the top of the scroll.

_For Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast_ , it said simply.  

 

* * *

 

 Carver caught a ship from Jader and was in the grand city of Val Royeaux within the week with little trouble, his formidable size and bearing doing much to discourage any thinking to find an easy mark of the lone traveler. For the week at sea, Carver stood at the prow of the swift caravel, his mind an echo of the vast and restless sea below him. The bright glittering lights of the Orlesian city brought him out of the slightly out of the fog he had been in and curiosity got the better of him as they docked. He gawked shamelessly at the sights until he found his way to the greeting party at that was awaiting him. Soaring above the city, the towers of the Grand Cathedral could be seen from the docks, glinting in the afternoon light.

He was met at the docks by two chantry sisters and led into the city proper. It was unfortunate that most of his view of the large and sumptuous city was blocked by the small windows of the carriage and the droning voice of the sisters who accompanied him.  

The curious numbness that had occupied his mind was swiftly draining away and his memories of Hawke no longer seemed to carry the same weight as before. His breath didn’t catch as he imagined his brother walking through these very same streets.  From even his limited vantage point, Carver could see Hawke reveling in the distractions of the people and the market. But then Carver saw Hawke everywhere.  

That was one of his brother’s gifts; he just somehow fit regardless of the context. Hawke was just as comfortable in the Hanged Man, dodging vomit from more than one patron, as he was in the grandest soirees held by the nobility of Kirkwall, sipping aperitifs from delicate glass. Where Carver stuck out, his brother had always fit in.

_What was that saying_ , Carver pondered,  _two sides of the same coin?_ He snorted, interrupting one of the sister’s monologuing, who frowned briefly but continued after his murmured apology.  For the rest of the carriage ride, Carver kept Hawke in the front of his thoughts. The sisters brought him to the guest quarter entrance near the back of the Grand Cathedral and left in the hands of a very formally dressed attendant with a polite farewell.  

He followed the stiff servant to his quarters and was left with strict instructions on when to arrive for the ceremony. The servant departed, but not before making a pointed remark about bathing.  Carver ran a hand over his rather bristled chin as he gazed out the wide window, marveling at the beauty of the Grand Cathedral and its towers.  Even from his room he could hear the glory of a full choir singing the Chant.

Hours later, scrubbed, shaved, and dressed in the shining plate and rich robes of the formal templar attire, Carver stood at the center of the main atrium before the high altar of the Divine. The ceremony was everything that Carver expected, and somehow more.  The Grand Cathedral, despite the general pomposity of the people inside of it, was glorious. The arches were so graceful that it seemed an impossibility that it was made of stone. The sumptuousness of his surroundings and the people had merged into an impression of gold, marble, and vast wealth. Thousands of candles warmed the cold stone and caught on the multitude of precious stones of the seat of the Divine.

The award, an obnoxiously large medal, covered in precious stones and engravings, was presented by the Divine Victoria with all the pomp and circumstance required. He had met the Divine in Lothering, back when she was a simple lay sister.  Looking into her strangely ageless face as she bent down to pin the medal to his chest, Carver saw nothing of the sweet girl who would sing for the roses that grew in the chantry garden.

Carver snuck out of the fete held in his honor after the ceremony as soon as he could slip away unnoticed. Based on the conversations Carver overheard as he lingered near the banquet table, chantry folk and nobility alike were all far more concerned about the rising tensions between the Circle and the College of Enchanters. The halls carried dark whispers of a rebellion against the Divine herself. On the way to the luxurious quarters in the guest wing of the Cathedral that the Divine had graciously provided for the duration of his stay in Val Royeaux, Carver snagged an aide and asked after the location of the Seeker.

His luck held out, as the aide informed him that not only was the Seeker currently in residence but that she was staying in the very same guest wing that Carver was.  It was still early enough, particularly in a city known for its late night hours, so he took the aide’s directions and headed to the Seeker’s quarters. He found himself in front of ornate double doors, gilded scrollwork covering the impressive cornice and casing.

His first knock went unanswered.  

At the second knock a terse female voice called out “I said ‘Enter’ so enter already!”

Carver took that as more than enough impetus to open the door and step through.  

The interior of the room was surprisingly spartan in the overly ornate capital of Orlais, though the long desk, bookshelves and plush seating managed not to escape the general trend of over-embellished carvings and gilded flowery trims.  The woman, dressed in regal though worn Seeker attire, stood behind the desk.  She remained focused on the map in front of her, paperwork carefully organized in neat stacks, brow furrowed in disgruntlement as she tapped her pen impatiently against the thick vellum.  

Carver strode to the front of her desk and stood uncertainly.  The Seeker had changed very little since he had saw her last, that one stressful week when she had come to Kirkwall to track down Carver’s brother. Still in the familiar Seeker attire even. Back then she had dragged Varric into the abandoned Amell estate and appeared nearly a day later just as pissed off as she started.  It had always seemed like a small miracle that he had managed to escape her notice.  As much as he liked to pretend otherwise, even in the ubiquitous templar armor, he stuck out.  

“Are you just going to loom or is there something you wish to discuss?” the Seeker asked dryly, eyes still on the map before her.  He blinked, jarred by the sound of her voice, and realized that several moments of quiet had passed as he reminisced.

“I..uh no...ma’am..I have a message from the Commander of the Inquisition,” he stumbled through his response.  _I sounded like the greenest recruit,_ he thought with an internal wince.

“Well...hand it over then,”  she commanded with an outstretched palm.  

Carver reached into the convenient pouch of his ceremonial robes and handed the sealed scroll over to the Seeker. He remained in the room, shifting awkwardly as she turned her attention to the letter, clearly dismissing him.  He cleared his throat and the woman glanced up, one eyebrow quirked at his continued presence.  

“The Commander asked me to ensure that you’ve read the contents,” Carver explained rather sheepishly.  She let out a small huff of exasperation.  

“Ignore _one_ message _one_ time,” she muttered before gesturing to the upholstered chair in front of the massive desk.  “At least sit while you wait.”  

He sat carefully, the rather dainty Orlesian chair creaking ominously under his weight. She returned to the letter with a hint of amusement on her stern face.  A few moments go by as she rapidly finished the remainder of the letter, and when she reached the end the Seeker pinned him with a look as sharp as her cheekbones.

“Are you aware of the contents of this letter?” She asked finally and Carver flushed.

“No?  The Commander didn’t provide an explanation and I don’t...I wouldn’t-”

“Calm yourself,” she interjected, interrupting his stumbled explanation. “I wasn’t suggesting that you did anything untoward. I was only wondering if the subject of this letter was aware of its contents.”

Carver made a questioning noise.  The woman held up the letter in question.  “This is a recommendation directly from the Commander of the Inquisition's forces on your behalf,” she explained. “He suggests that you would make an exemplary member of the Seekers of Truth,” the Seeker set down the letter and looked him over before finally continuing. “And based on what I’ve read here, I’m inclined to agree.”

Carver rocked back, stunned to his core, temporally forgetting the precarious position on the delicate chair.  There was an ominous crack as he sputtered for moment.

“Isn’t there...What of the Lord Seeker?” He finally stammered intelligently.

The Seeker let out a small noise of disgust. “The last Lord Seeker found himself a thrall to an Envy Demon,” she explained succinctly. “Lel- The Divine Victoria has appointed me with the restoration of the Seeker Order,” the woman paused briefly before continuing with a small wry smile.  “Although perhaps _accepted_ what I was already doing is a more honest answer.”

“It is my honor to hold the title of Lady Seeker until such time as another can be elected by a full quorum,” she concluded with a small regal nod.

Carver straightened automatically, grimacing at the pained noises of the chair beneath him.  

“The training will be arduous, though with your history with the Templars I suppose you are no stranger to it,” the Seeker continued. “I will not lie to you, the work will be difficult and thankless. It is very possible that the Seeker Order itself will be disbanded. All I can offer is an opportunity to take action in establishing and maintaining peace.” She stilled behind the desk, face becomingly flushed in her zeal.

The Seeker met his eyes and held it, the sincerity of her words so clear in her gaze.  

“You can’t ask for a more righteous or just cause than the Seekers of Truth.  So what say you?  Will you join me?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, I will.”  Carver blurted out.  He didn’t even pause to think, he leapt.  

The woman smiled, surprised him with its sweetness, and offered him her hand.

“Welcome aboard, Initiate Hawke.” she said.

Carver stood up carefully and straightened out to his full height. The fog that had come to rest in his mind since Skyhold was finally wiped away. Everything was suddenly and emphatically crystal clear.

He thought about Garrett. The statue at Kirkwall. Varric’s letter. Fenris, Aveline, Merrill, and so many more chanting _Hawke Hawke Hawke_ , as the man in question threw back some of the worst beer in the history of Kirkwall.  Thought about Lothering and a small boy gazing with hero worship in his eyes as his older brother balanced on a fence with arms spread wide.   _Look Carver, I’m the Hawk Hawke!_ There had only ever been one. Could only ever be one.

He clasped her outstretched hand in his.  

“Please, call me Carver.”

**Author's Note:**

> THAT'S RIGHT FOLKS!! CARVERS ALL GROWN UP AND GONNA BE A SEEKER.  
> Take that Bioware!


End file.
